


Part 1: Dogma Within Science

by JulisCaesar



Series: At the End of All Things [3]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: (only a little bit), Bad Science, Biological Warfare, Blood, Concussions, Dehumanization, Disease, F/F, Gen, Implied Mind Rape, Kissing, Mildly Inaccurate Science, Mostly accurate science tbh but really bad scientific procedure, Needles, Non-Consensual Groping, Telepathy, at least one really bad pun, do not try this at home, no really don't, of an alien character but??? just throwing out tags because this kinda gets dark, science without proper peer review, well there was a mental info dump and it wasn't voluntary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulisCaesar/pseuds/JulisCaesar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tegan's life was good. Happy, even. The universe to explore, Nyssa and the Doctor to do it with (and Turlough, she supposed).</p><p>Except that now, for unknown reasons, she's in a corridor with Nyssa and Turlough and two people she somehow knows but has never met before. And without the Doctor.</p><p>And she has memories she hasn't lived through, and from down the hall she can hear something shouting "Exterminate!", and Tegan has the sinking feeling in her stomach that means they're about to start another life-or-death adventure except this time without the Doctor yelling excitedly about cricket.</p><p>Suddenly Tegan isn't sure that any of them are going to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You do NOT need to have read any previous section to understand this one. You don't need to have read anything to understand this fic, so long as you know that Tegan (human), Nyssa (alien--visually identical to human), and Turlough (alien--visually identical to human) travel with the Fifth Doctor, Wilfred (human) helped the Tenth Doctor, and Clara (human) travels with the Eleventh and Twelfth Doctors.
> 
> Do not panic because this is part 3 of a series while the title says part 1. Trust me. Things are very loosely connected right now.

“Hen’s teeth,” Tegan said harshly, and was about to say more when Nyssa’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “ _What_?”

Nyssa gave her a reproachful look, her eyes then flickering towards the others. They were in a loose circle, her and Nyssa and Turlough and two others, tucked into a divot off a plain grey corridor. Looking out, Tegan could see it stretching on in both directions, marked only by an occasional door, walls and floor and ceiling all made from the same steel plates riveted together, slightly wider and lower than she was used to.

Tegan growled at her, fighting back nausea. “We were just _kidnapped_ from the TARDIS and dropped somewhere with that _rat_ and two strangers. I’m allowed to snap.”

Nyssa made a noise that sounded suspiciously condescending, shifting to hold Tegan’s hand instead of her wrist.

Turlough straightened his jacket. “I am not a rat.”

“And I don’t think we’re strangers,” one of the others said in a soft English accent. “You’re Tegan Jovanka, he’s Vislor Turlough, and the woman holding onto you is Nyssa of Traken.”

Tegan forced herself to stand upright for the first time since—whatever it was, and looked at the younger woman. “How do you know?” Her grip on Nyssa’s hand was tighter than she would care to admit, and the nausea—from the transmat?—was refusing to go away. Her head spun aggressively and she retched quietly.

“Tegan?” Nyssa asked quietly.

She shook her head, fingers clenching on Nyssa’s hand hard enough that she knew the Trakenite would be wincing. “I’m fine.” It took her a moment but she managed to look up and meet Clara’s eyes.

Now how had she known that?

Clara gave her a shaky smile. “I don’t know. I just—know your names.”

“Same,” Tegan said, frowning. “Clara Oswald and Wilfred Mott.”

“Oh.” Nyssa wobbled next to her. “Oh that’s—interesting. That’s very interesting.”

Tegan looked over, ignoring Turlough’s pale face, Wilf—short for Wilfred, and how _did_ she know that?—staggering on his feet, and Clara’s expression of worried determination. “Nyss’?”

Nyssa gave her a strangled smile. “I’m here.”

Tegan snorted. “Not what I was asking. Are you alright?”

Looking up, Nyssa nodded once. “I am…getting there, yes.” She rubbed her thumb over the back of Tegan’s hand, starting to smile with a quiet, excited air that Tegan recognized—Nyssa had worked something out. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

“No, Nyssa,” Tegan said, shaking her head. “Not a _clue_.”

Nyssa sighed. “Psychic information transfer. Someone wanted to give us a large volume of information very quickly.”

Tegan closed her eyes briefly. “So this—” she waved her hand vaguely— “was planned?”

Nyssa gave her one of _those_ looks, the one that meant she had just said something clueless and possibly illogical. “Yes, Tegan,” she said with an admirable—and transparent—attempt at politeness. “It was very much so.”

“Why?” Tegan asked at the same moment as Turlough said, “Who?”

Clara shrugged. “If we know one, we’ll find the other.”

Something shuddered in Tegan’s mind. She stiffened, glancing at Nyssa. “Do—do memories just _appear_? After one of these psychic transit things?”

Nyssa frowned. “Tegan?”

She shivered, goose bumps running up and down her spine. “I’m fine. Yeah. I’m—I’m fine.”

_“There’s the first three.”_

_“You are planning to take the others from later, if I understand correctly.”_

_“Yes.”_

The corridor blurred out of focus; the voices in her ears seemed far more important than anything else.

_“I still think you should bring them here first. Debrief them properly, rather than trusting to a psychic transfer. Give them any supplies they may need for whatever mission you have planned.”_

_“I do not have the time for that. We’ve been over this before.”_

_“My lady—”_

_“Braxiatel. These missions are carefully planned to cascade, one on top of the other. If I take the time to explain the situation to a group of uneducated aliens—”_

_“Who travelled with the Doctor, these are hardly_ any _aliens.”_

The voices seemed upset, although she couldn’t say how she knew that: they registered to her mind as a warped grey noise.

_“My point is that the plan will collapse.”_

_“You’re worried they’ll protest.”_

_“No. It simply would take too much time.”_

_“You are sending this group on a_ suicide _mission. You are planning to drop them in a Dalek base, leave them a basic set of instructions, and then neglect to mention that you are not giving them an_ extraction plan _. Which part of this were you planning to explain to them?”_

_“You_ will _respect me.”_

She shuddered at the woman’s tone, carried in a wave of sharp unpleasant shards.

_“Madam. President.”_

_“I am fighting a war, Braxiatel, a war that I have been on the verge of losing since the day it began. There are trillions of lives at stake, and you want me to save five aliens.”_

_“Yes, I do. At the_ very _least_ , _give them the blessing of an extraction plan. Assign someone to monitor them—assign_ me _to monitor them!—and get them out when they have caused enough damage.”_

_“Why are you so interested in these aliens?”_

_“Why aren’t you?”_

_“Braxiatel.”_

_“One of them is the last member of her race. She deserves a place in the Collection.”_

Tegan felt sick. She knew—in the same way that she was hearing the discussion—that Clara and Wilfwere both human, and that Turlough was anything _but_ the last of his species. Which left Nyssa.

_“You have my permission to extract them once their mission is complete.”_

The voices silenced and Tegan staggered.

“Tegan?” Nyssa caught her elbow. “You went silent.”

Tegan blinked at her, head swimming. “I won’t let him take you.”

Nyssa frowned. “Sit down before you fall over.”

Making a face, Tegan sat on the concrete floor. “It was just in my head,” she slurred, aware that her mouth wasn’t obeying and entirely unsure how to fix it.

“I think the memories hit her harder than they did us,” Clara said, stepping forward.

Nyssa sat beside Tegan, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Stay back,” she snapped.

Tegan pressed into Nyssa’s side. “Talk telepathically?” There was too much, she didn’t want to hurt the others, but she couldn’t do this alone—

Nyssa nodded, letting her other hand rest on one of Tegan’s. “Contact.”

Tegan closed her eyes, beyond thankful that Trakenites were telepathic—even if it _did_ complicate matters with the Master sometimes. _“The Time Lords—they brought us here—didn’t intend for us to leave._ ”

She could feel Nyssa flinch. _“What did they intend?”_

_“For us to destroy the Daleks.”_

_“How?”_ Nyssa asked, mental presence strained.

Tegan snorted both aloud and mentally.

Nyssa sighed, pushing her hair back. _“What else?”_

_“The two who were talking,”_ Tegan sent hesitantly, unwilling to hurt Nyssa and even less willing to hold information back from her, _“one of them wanted to get us out once we’ve hurt the Daleks enough.”_

_“But?”_

_“But only because of you.”_

Nyssa looked down. _“I suppose it was predictable. If it gets us out of here—”_

_“Nyssa. I won’t let him have you.”_

_“We have to get out_.” Nyssa’s mental voice was firm.

Tegan turned to her, frowning. _“And we will. But I will_ not _let anyone_ collect _you, like some bloody_ artwork _!”_

Nyssa smiled slightly, mind both proud and stressed. _“We_ have _to get out of here. We cannot die.”_

_“Our mission is to cause a distraction in the middle of an_ entire _Dalek army. How can we_ not _die?”_

_“We were pulled out of our timeline. Dying without returning to the Doctor first would cause a paradox.”_

Tegan huffed. _“How do you know we’re going to return, though? We could just—vanish, and he’d move on.”_

There was a rattling noise from behind her and Tegan turned to look. “Get down!” someone shouted. A hand hit her shoulder and she nearly took a swing at them;Nyssa’s mind _howled_ at her and she dropped, knees striking the floor first painfully. In the background she heard shouting and electric clangs.

Nyssa joined her, mind grabbing panicked at hers. “Daleks,” she said, voice quiet. “Right here.”

“You!” Wilfred barked. “Turlough. Get down!” He was already on the ground, one hand keeping Clara down.

Tegan turned slightly, peering out of the divot. Trundling around the corridor was a group of grey and black machines, sort of resembling trashcans but with two straight arms and an eyestalk. “PURSUE THE CONVICTS.”

“THIS CORRIDOR IS EMPTY,” one said, lights flashing, eyestalk jerking up and down.

Tegan looked up. “Turlough,” she hissed, trying to fight down the panic. “ _Down_.”

Turlough had stumbled into the centre of the corridor, where he would be seen instantly. “They’re just rubbish bins, Tegan. Come on, let’s get this done and go ho- _back_.”

“CONVICTS LOCATED!” The Daleks turned as a unit towards them, lights flashing on their domes. “EXTERMINATE THE CONVICTS. EX-TER-MIN-ATE!” One of them fired, a bolt of blue-white electricity that struck the wall and left a black scorch mark.

Tegan jumped up, tackling Turlough. “You _idiot_.” They hit the ground rolling, Turlough’s shoulder first, and then Tegan’s head smacked into the ground, leaving her ears ringing.

“EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE! EX-TER-MIN-ATE!”

“Run!” someone yelled.

Someone grabbed Tegan’s shoulder. “Tegan. Come on, get up. Tegan, the _Daleks_.”

Tegan rolled over, vision blurry. “Ffff —Nyssa? God, my head hurts. ‘S like a hangover, but—” She stopped short, blinking upwards.

“Scientist or leader—” Nyssa clenched her hands on her shoulders. “I will miss you, Tegan,” she said softly. “Wilfred Mott, _protect_ her.” And then suddenly she was gone, warm hands no longer there.

It _hurt_ , her head, it _hurt_ , pounding, throbbing as blood rushed through it, Nyssa had shown her the blood vessels of the brain once and she could feel every single one of them, and she _couldn’t see_ , her eyes couldn’t focus—

“EXTERMINATE!”

“Tegan? Tegan, let’s go.” A voice—not Nyssa’s. “Looks like that must hurt, but—not entirely sure what those are, Nyssa called them Daleks—anyway, we really should go.”

Tegan grabbed upwards, latching onto someone’s shoulder. “Where is she?”

“What?”

She blinked, firmly, trying to bring the world back into focus. “Nyssa. Where is Nyssa?”

“EXTERMINATE!”

“We can sort this out later, girls, but we do need to run. You—lad—carry her.”

Tegan frowned at the person above her. There was something very very wrong here and she couldn’t quite place it. “Where is Nyssa?” she repeated, hoping to get a different answer.

“I don’t—”

“Look here, it’s your fault she’s hurt, so you’re the one carrying her. Now _move_.”

Arms grabbed her and lifted her from the ground, her head flopping loosely. “Nyssa.”

“She’s being a distraction.” That voice she recognized: Turlough.

Tegan jerked, struggling to get down. “Let me _go_ she’ll die!”

“ _Run_!” Nyssa’s scream carried over the commotion. “Tegan _run_!’

Yanking free, Tegan stumbled, looked back, and ran. Wilfred and Clara were in the lead, Turlough following. He caught up quickly, grabbing one of her arms and helping her along. She’d seen enough to know turning back was pointless.

Nyssa, standing in front of the Daleks, blocking their way.

Nyssa, illuminated in the light from their guns.

Tegan didn’t turn back because there was a _reason_ for this, and that was to give her the time to get some distance, and once she was far enough away, she was going to stop and come up with a plan to take down the entire Dalek Empire.

* * *

By the time Wilfred thought it safe enough to stop, Tegan’s head was pounding like nothing else. She collapsed against a wall, panting. Clara was bent over, head between her knees and Wilfred was kneeling on the floor, gasping in breaths of air. Only Turlough was reasonably steady.

“Now what?” he asked, looking at her.

Tegan shook her head, the motion itself painful, making her brain bounce in her skull. “Not a clue.”

“We need a place to stay,” Wilfred said, straightening up. “A bunker, of some sort.”

Biting her lip, Tegan used the wall to hold herself up, vision still faintly blurry. “Okay. Right, we've got to—um—find a place, rest, and then—”

“Do we have a way out?” Turlough snapped, tone doubting.

Tegan looked in his general direction. “Yes.”

He snorted. “What is it, then? Bet you’re lying.”

She yanked her chin up solely out of an urge to irritate Turlough. “If we destroy enough Daleks, the Time Lords will send us back.”

“Really?” Turlough had a nasty smirk on his face. “And what qualifies as _enough_?”

“Leave it, lad,” Wilfred said quietly. “There’s naught we can do now.”

“There were convicts,” Clara put in between gasps of air. “The Daleks mentioned them.”

She managed to take a step away from the wall. “Yeah. So there're others.” Other people, who might have weapons they could use, who might be able to help them—people, _humans_ even. “If we can get them—we could get Nyssa back.”

Wilfred looked sad as he stepped towards her. “Tegan, I'm sorry.”

“No!” she burst out, falling back against the wall, sliding down it until her butt hit the floor. “Don't say it! If you don't say it—we're going to save her, alright? We're going to get some guns and blow Daleks up and save Nyssa, because that's how this _works_.”

Wilfred bent down beside her. “She's dead, Tegan. They had her surrounded.”

Tegan snarled at him, tucking her knees in towards her chest. “No. No, she's not. She can't be.”

“Daleks coming,” Turlough said emotionlessly. “We should go.”

“Come 'ere,” Wilfred told her, reaching an arm out. “Let's go.”

She was shaking, why was she shaking, this couldn't be—no, not Nyssa, not Nyssa too, not after Adric, not after everything, how _could_ she be—no, of course she wasn't, she was safe and well and—and doing something—she _had_ to be, Nyssa was always the stronger emotionally—almost always, but that didn't matter because she was still alive. Tegan nearly fell, grabbing onto Wilfred's hand. “She's not dead.”

Clara took her other arm. “This way seems the best.”

“Why?” Turlough asked snidely.

Clara looked at him like he was an idiot. “It's the smallest, see? Hardest for the Daleks to get through.”

Wilfred stepped forward and Tegan followed automatically, shivering. “She's not,” she stammered, “she's not, she can't be, not now, not _here_.”

Turlough huffed. “Shut it, Tegan. Whether she's dead or not, she's not here, and we shouldn’t be either.”

Shocked, she looked up at him.

“I was trying to be nice,” he snapped. “Don't worry, it won't happen again. _I_ have no intention of dying here.”

Tegan swallowed, supporting herself fully, only the fingertips of one hand touching the wall. “Let's go, then.”

* * *

 

They stumbled down the corridors, always picking the smallest, the most oddly shaped, the least worn ones. Eventually they could no longer hear Daleks. Inside, with no windows, the world was timeless, and Tegan walked along in a haze. Losing Adric had been hard, but it was _nothing_ compared to this hole. If she was—dead—

After a while, Wilfred began talking, sharing stories with Clara about their respective Doctors. It was amusing, or it should have been, to compare those lanky aliens with her own, those ones with brown hair with hers in blonde. She couldn't laugh though. It hurt too much.

Sometime before anyone actually collapsed, Turlough found a cistern, although none of them knew why it was there. He looked at the group and then took the first drink, pronouncing it old and dusty, but not actually poisoned. The rest of them drank, and then they took a rest, Clara sleeping while Wilfred stood watch. Tegan confronted Turlough.

“Why are you here?”

Turlough rolled his eyes. “The Time Lords sent me. You know, your little friends in the dorky robes? Those ones. Didn't get much of an option, did I.”

Tegan frowned. “You could’ve gone somewhere else. Didn’t have to stick with us.”

He looked away. “Suppose I could have.”

“Why didn't you?”

Turlough shrugged, wordless.

Tegan huffed, wanting to scream but her head hurt too much even for that. “Fine. Whatever. Just—don’t do anything stupid now, okay? Like that bleeding stunt when you kept standing. Don’t do that—” She finally connected the dots, the logic now painfully obvious, and she took a swing at Turlough, who easily avoided it. “You _killed_ her!”

“I did nothing,” Turlough snapped, glaring at her.

“If you hadn't remained standing–!” Tegan shouted, shaking. “If you had listened—oh _fuck_.” She crumpled, knees hitting the floor yet again, arms wrapped around herself. “Nyssa.” Shivering, she began to cry, rocking back and forth. “Nyssa, Nyssa, I'm sorry, you were wrong, I'm sorry, I wish I had been wrong but there's no paradox, you're just _dead_.”

Wilfred pulled her into a strong hug, hand moving gently on her back. “There, there. I know the feeling. I've been there.”

Tegan turned her head into his chest and for the first time, let herself cry, let herself feel.

She cried herself out, and let Wilfred give her his jacket to lie on, next to Clara. After a while, he too took a nap, leaving only Turlough on watch.

* * *

 

They all woke up together, Turlough clearing his throat quietly. “Company.”

Tegan jumped up, wiping dried snot from her face. “Hello?”

“That way,” Turlough said, pointing down the corridor. “I heard them a minute ago.”

Wilfred stood up, grabbing his coat back. “Daleks again?”

Turlough shook his head. “No. Didn't sound like them.”

“And after meeting them once,” Tegan asked doubtfully, “you can recognize their voices on cue?”

“Can't you?” Turlough shot back.

Tegan didn't respond, just sighed. “We should go out to meet them.”

“Or run,” Turlough said.

Wilfred snorted. “How far do you think we’d get?”

Clara stood, dusting off her long skirt. “Better to meet them than to have them think we're trying to keep them from the water.”

Tegan nodded, stepping away from the cistern. “Hi?” she called out again. “We're friendly.”

The others followed, remaining behind her. “Wish I had my gun,” Wilfred muttered. “Never had much use for the thing before, but it'd be right useful here.”

“Hello? We're—we're running from the Daleks too.” She kept her hands up, walking forward slowly. “Please? We need food and shelter.”

From the shadows where steel plates met unevenly and corridors didn't quite attach right humanoids stepped forward, people wearing ragged, blackened clothes and carrying battered but serviceable weapons. “Put down your guns,” their leader snapped. “All of you, put your weapons down.”

Tegan held her hands up higher. “We're unarmed.”

He gave her a glance, then gestured with the butt of his gun to a comrade. “You. You and Pat, search them.”

The designated two, no less scruffy or wild looking than the rest, came forward, letting their guns rest on straps around their necks. One came straight to Tegan, the other to Turlough; their fellow soldiers kept guns trained on Wilfred and Clara. Pat ran his hands roughly over Tegan, pausing on her breasts. She very nearly kneed him, but held herself back. The others were armed, they were not. “This one's clear, sir.”

Pat moved on. In quick succession the other three were announced to be free of weapons as well, and they were quickly surrounded by the men. “Who are you? What're you doing here?” their leader demanded.

“We're trying to fight the Daleks.” Tegan stayed between the others and the leader. “We'd like to help you.”

He gave her a disdainful look. “And what help would you be?”

She jutted her jaw. “Intelligent, healthy, quick-learners – how many of those do you have, that you can afford to turn down four volunteers?” The words sounded like Nyssa's, and she ignored the pain. “We're offering to help. Whatever you want us to do, we're willing. So long as it's against the Daleks.”

Their leader scanned her again. “I’m Will. Pat’s my second. Your names are?”

“Tegan Jovanka,” she said, pretending to be far braver than she actually felt. “This is Vislor Turlough, Wilfred Mott, and Clara Oswald.”

Will nodded. “Come on. Ginger, you’ll fight. The others—there’s a spot for you at t’camp.”

Tegan bristled, but followed him down the corridor. Clara nudged her as they began writing. “Are we actually listening to them?”

She shrugged. “You see another choice?”

“With the Doctor, we would have—” Clara began.

Tegan snarled sub audibly. “The Doctor's not here, is he? No. He buggered off and let his poncy friends kidnap us and now Nyssa—”

“Did you-?” Clara waved a hand, presumably trying to indicate something.

“Shove off,” Tegan told her, and refused to make eye contact.

* * *

 

The men's camp wasn't too far away. Camp in this city of metal corridors meant a coul de sac of a room, heptagonal, with only one entrance. It was large enough for the nearly one hundred people crammed into it, mostly men but with a scattering of women and children. “You. Girls,” Will snapped. “You can cook. Old man—we need more guards. And ginger, like I said, you're a soldier.”

Turlough straightened. “If you think I am going to take _your_ orders, you are sorely mistaken.”

One of the soldiers brought his gun butt down on Turlough's back. He crumpled to the floor, groaning, and promptly curled up. “You'll do whatever I tell you to,” Will said coldly. “We're the last resistance against the Daleks, and you're not about to spoil this for us.”

Tegan bit her lip, and lowered her head, brushing a dirty hand across her face. “Clara. Come on.” The other woman followed her as Tegan wove her way through the crowd. The walls were lined with clothing bundles that clearly doubled as sleeping pallets, except for one spot in the very back. There, someone had managed to cut through the steel, and Tegan had her first glimpse of sun in what seemed like years. It beat down on her, and she winced, looking away. Directly beneath the hole sat a cooking pot, of sorts, beaten out of a similar steel plate, and placed over a smoking flare. The pot was surrounded by the only women in the room, one with a child on her back, another with two at her skirts. Tegan winced, trying to find a new way out of this.

The women absorbed Tegan and Clara easily, accepting their story and sympathizing, if not understanding, Tegan's problems. Wilfred quickly vanished as well, but Turlough continued to be a problem. Every time he stood up, he told Will exactly what he thought, only to be beaten down again. After a while Tegan stopped watching.

“Why's 'e keep fightin' so?" one of the women asked her as they sat against the wall.

Tegan shrugged. “Don't know. Never seen him like this before.”

“'s stupid,” was her verdict, and Tegan couldn't find it in her to disagree. Instead, she looked properly at the other woman. “What's going on here? What happened?”

It was the other's turn to shrug. “Used to be a bunker. To protect us from the others. The other side, see? In t' war, or so we were told. But then the saucers landed, and t' war didn't matter any more, just fightin' the monsters. The monsters won. Tha's what they don' tell you. Your parents - 'member them? Your parents didn’t ever tell you that the monsters win. Will – 'e's a good man, but tough. He keeps trying, tha's about all he can do at this point. Hates the monsters with everything he's got. We're the last ones. Used to talk to other groups, but none in a while.”

Tegan swallowed. There were dystopias – and she had seen plenty of those – and then there was this, this harsh, unrelenting march towards death.

“Where are you getting the food?” Clara asked, sitting down beside Tegan. “In the pots. Where's it coming from?”

The woman looked across at her. “Someone brings it.”

Tegan frowned at her. “Someone _brings_ it? Where do they get it?”

She shrugged. Tegan sighed, and let her head hit the wall.

Clara snorted. “Well that’s not worrying at all.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Previously:  
_

_“Where are you getting the food?” Clara asked, sitting down beside Tegan. “In the pots. Where's it coming from?”_

_The woman looked across at her. “Someone brings it.”_

_Tegan frowned at her. “Someone_ brings _it? Where do they get it?”_

_She shrugged. Tegan sighed, and let her head hit the wall._

_Clara snorted. “Well that’s not worrying at all.”_

* * *

 

They ate the food—what other option did they have? In the end, they were in the camp for nearly two weeks, and everyone was looking a little thin.

Tegan crouched next to Turlough, who had only given in when Will threatened to break his arm. “You heard what?”

“How many times do I need—”

“Just run through it again,” Tegan said, frowning. What she already knew made little sense, unless—“Please, Turlough.”

His eyes snapped over to her, and he nodded. “There have been Dalek missions passing this corridor. On a regular basis. And they never, not once, turn down it.”

Tegan hissed quietly, stomach sinking. Of course.

“They turn down every other corridor, shouting for convicts, but not this one.”

She looked back up at him. “Have you ever seen these convicts?”

He paled. “Not dead ones. We've found a few, but always well away from Daleks. Like they've been left for us. We've _never_ come across any that the Daleks killed.”

“Not very likely, is it?” Wilfred whispered, joining their subvert conversation. Will had ideas about men and women, ideas that Tegan vehemently disagreed with and didn't have the resources to change. “And then, more than that—we always get new convicts the day after an attack.”

“Exactly the same number,” Tegan said. “We're being kept for something.”

Turlough shook his head. “Not exactly the same number. Just very close.”

She frowned again. “I've been keeping track—it hasn't changed, not over time.”

“Us,” Turlough said flatly. “We arrived, and there was no attack.”

Tegan had to sit down, legs collapsing. “Hen's teeth. We're different. We weren't planned for. Turlough, have you told them anything?”

Turlough shook his head. “Pat asks, almost every mission.”

“That's it,” Wilfred said. “We're not part of the system.”

Tegan snarled, getting back up into a crouch. “No, but it doesn't make _sense._ Why keep ninety five humans at all? Why not kill them?”

There was a commotion from behind them, and she turned to see Clara fighting with Pat. “I won't do this—you can't!”

Wilfred visibly bristled—he had grown protective, or more so, of Clara over the past few days.

Pat glared at Clara, a vial in his hands. “And I'm telling you, girl, it's for everyone. It's to help us, you see?”

“It's wrong!” Clara shouted. “Why'd they let you have it?”

Tegan shook her head. “Oh _no_.”

“What?” Turlough demanded, but events were already moving on.

Pat moved as if to strike Clara, who dodged. “They didn't _let_ me have it, I took it from them. Left one of those bastard machines dead in the corridors!” There was a faint cheer. “And if they didn't want us to have it—why, it even _says_ energy solution. Why would they put lies on something they didn't think we would get?”

“What if they did?” Tegan whispered.

Wilfred paled.

“This is to _help_ us, girl!” Pat took another swing at Clara, and this time connected. She fell, shoulder hitting the ground first, managing to protect her head. Victorious, Pat dumped the contents of the vial into the pot.

Tegan tensed.

Nothing happened.

“No, no, no, no,” Tegan muttered. “Not that— _why?_ Oh—oh _hell_.”

Shaking, she grabbed Wilfred’s elbow. “We need to leave _now_.”

He frowned, hesitating. “Tegan—why? It didn’t explode, or anything—”

“It’s a virus,” Tegan snapped, “or a disease of some sort, maybe a poison, but I’d bet on disease, that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Wilfred still wavered, looking between her and Clara. “How do you know?”

She sighed, glaring at him. “We’re being kept alive. More than that, we’re being corralled, controlled. Fed, even. Why? Not as weapons—not with the turnover rate. Not to be killed, else we’d be dead. So test subjects. For what? Poison, or disease—things they can’t test on other species. I think disease—if it was a poison, they’d just strap us down and feed it to us.”

“And disease?” Turlough asked, giving her a doubtful glance.

Seriously considering telling him what he could do with his doubts, Tegan snarled. “We’re _test_ subjects. They want to see if it’ll spread right, if it kills too fast, what the unexpected side-effects are—things that might not show up under laboratory conditions. And then—” She nearly choked on the words. “And then, if it’s successful, the survivors, the carriers will probably be turned loose somewhere. To—to spread it.”

Wilfred frowned. Tegan’s eyes flicked back to the centre, where Clara had managed to stand up. Visibly upset, she grabbed the edge of the pot—possibly to try and overturn it—leaping back a second later with a shriek, shaking one hand. Wilfred cleared his throat, grabbing her attention again. “Where’d you learn this? Not that I’m doubting you, but seems a bit of a jump to make.”

“Nyssa,” Tegan said shortly, turning away. “Clara! Come here!”

The other woman made her way through the crowd as Tegan continued to ignore Pat. The humans were dead – her responsibility now was to get the other three out safely, complete the mission, and then avenge Nyssa.

“Oi! Whachu doing?” The man who stepped in front of her was one she didn’t know the name of, only that he was large, surly, and fond of women. “Get back to work.”

She nearly spat at him, terrified and beyond pissed off, but at that moment Clara brushed past him. “We done here?” she gasped out. “’Cause I got some of that on my hand and—” She waved the limb in question, the fingers bright red and burnt.

“Yeah.” Tegan flipped the man two fingers. “Let's go.”

“Hey,” he grunted. “You can't leave. 's against rules.”

Tegan glared at him. “I really don't care. We're leaving before everyone here dies.”

He growled —not just grumbling, but a sound more suited to a dog. “Will won't like that, and I don't either.”

“Deal with it,” she told him, and turned away, towards the outside of the camp.

There was a sound behind her, shoes against the steel floor, and then the noise of flesh on flesh and a loud crack. By the time she turned back, the man was holding one arm limply, and Turlough had stepped back, face flushed. “We should probably leave now.”

“Ya _think_?” Tegan asked, more than a little shocked.

Turlough rolled his eyes. “Take this." He grabbed the man's gun, yanking it away and breaking the strap. The man, apparently in shock, didn't react, clutching his arm to his chest. “And—run.”

Tegan took the gun, and led the way, shoving through the outer guards and out into the corridors. Behind her, she could hear the others following, Turlough and Clara's lighter steps and Wilfred's heavier ones. Someone took a shot, but it whistled overhead and ricocheted off the wall. And then they were free, running down a featureless steel corridor.

* * *

 

“Do we have any sort of map, communicator, anything?” Clara asked later, as they sat by one of the ubiquitous cisterns.

Tegan shook her head, splashing water over her face. "No. Course not. That would make _sense_.”

Turlough snorted. “Well planned mission, this one.”

“We're a _distraction_ ,” Tegan said bluntly. “Expendable.”

“Oh well that's cheery, yeah,” Turlough shot back. “Exactly what I want to hear.”

Wilfred cut in before it could escalate any further. “Now what?”

Tegan sighed. “Good question. I suppose, if we're to be any good at all, we should find their headquarters or similar, and try to abort the virus.”

“Is that possible?” Clara said, eyebrows raised.

Leaning back, Tegan let her head hit the wall. “Who knows.”

Wilfred sighed. “Tegan, any idea how to find the headquarters?”

She shrugged. “Follow the Daleks?”

Clara made an amused noise, shivering. “It’s actually not a bad idea—they don't have any peripheral vision, so if we can keep behind them, and hide when they’re going around corridors—”

“It’d be dammed dangerous,” Wilfred said. “But if no one’s got a better plan...”

Tegan swallowed. “Not at this point.”

He nodded. “Well, no point in speculation. Shall we find some pepper pots?”

Tegan stood, stretching absentmindedly. “Unless someone has a better idea." The others shook their heads. “Sneaking behind Daleks it is. Brilliant. Should be simple.”

* * *

 

The slightly worrying thing, Tegan thought, was that it really _was_ easy. Daleks had no peripheral vision to speak of, and their hearing wasn't the best, meaning that the dangerous moments came when the metal beasts rounded corners. They picked a patrol and followed them, eventually ending up in an area with more and wider tunnels where the patrol they were following met another group of Daleks. They hid quickly, and listened.

“REPORT ON THE EXPERIMENTS.”

“THE HUMAN HAS RECEIVED THE VIRUS. IT WILL BE INFECTED WITHIN FIFTY DECA-RELLS.”

“THIS REPORT IS SATISFACTORY.”

“REPORT ON DEVELOPMENT.”

“THIS UNIT DOES NOT REPORT TO YOU.”

“THE SUPREME DALEK COMMANDS.”

Tegan peered out from her corner, trying to see. The Daleks shuffled their positions, letting through a larger black Dalek. “REPORT ON DEVELOPMENT.”

“DEVELOPMENT PROCEEDS,” the leader of the new group said. “THE CAPTIVE IS RECALCITRANT.”

“IS IT NEEDED?”

There was a long pause. “YES,” the leader finally blared.

“THEN CONTINUE AS PLANNED,” the Emperor—presumably—said and trundled off. The groups split up, and Tegan crossed the corridor to the others.

“The captive?” Clara asked quietly. She was the weakest of them, leaning heavily on the wall and still shivering. “Who?”

Tegan sighed. “Good question. They're our best bet for a laboratory, though. At least for one we can work with.”

“The one talking about a captive came from that way,” Wilfred said, pointing.

Tegan nodded, tamping down her emotions. “Right, we'll start there.” She poked her head out of their cubby-hole, looking around, and then stepped into the corridor proper, gesturing to the others. They crept along, single file and keeping close to the walls, not talking and doing their best to not make any noise at all.

The corridors here were in a different style, more human. Tegan suspected they were in the earliest areas of the bunkers, and that the outside edges had been built by the Daleks for the purpose of confusing their human test subjects. Most of the doors were long since gone, their entryways widened to allow Dalek entry. When they reached one that wasn't gone, but instead had been reinforced, Tegan stopped. “Here.”

Wilfred nodded. “Seems likely.”

Turlough's head snapped up. “Hide,” he hissed.

They bolted across the hallway to another room, tucking themselves behind the doorframe. Tegan peered out just enough to see what was happening; the others remained further in the shadows. Clara in particular was tucked away—during the last sprint she had been unable to stop shivering, and it was starting to worry Tegan. A Dalek rattled down the corridor, alone. It stopped at their intersection, turning towards the locked door. Reaching up with its plunger, it pressed the extension to a pad on the wall. The door clicked open and the Dalek rolled in. The door remained open behind it.

Tegan glanced at the others.

“Guns don't work,” Wilfred said. “Not these ones, for sure.”

Tegan bit her lip. “If I can get the eyestalk—what other opportunities are we going to have? How else are we going to get in?”

Turlough shook his head. “It could just be weapons storage. Too risky.”

“Look,” another voice said—yelled, rather. “If you want me to design a virus in exchange for my life, fine. But you cannot expect me to work without equipment. The conditions here are _deplorable_.”

“YOU WILL DO THE WORK WITH THE RESOURCES YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN,” the Dalek roared in return, “OR YOU WILL BE—”

“Rubbish,” the unknown—the captive—retaliated. “You cannot exterminate me, you _need_ me. Else I would be long dead.”

Tegan's breath caught. The captive was female, and sounded human, although that rarely meant anything. But the cadence—the way she spoke—

“No, Tegan,” Turlough whispered. “No.”

“THERE ARE NO BETTER CONDITIONS.”

“Then I cannot do it!” the captive—no, no it couldn’t be her, Tegan wasn’t going to think that—shouted. “I _have_ to have the equipment I need, I _cannot_ do this with these—these discards.”

Tegan turned on Turlough. “It’s her.”

Turlough went pale. “Go.”

Tegan stared at him for a second, breath loud and harsh. If she wasn’t—if Nyssa was really—She ran out of the room, already getting the gun strap off her neck, the gun cold and heavy and _solid_ in her hands. It took her four strides to get out of the room and across the hall, another two to enter the chambers on the other side. The Dalek was just turning to look at her when she brought the butt of the gun down on its eyestalk. “EXTERMINATE!” it howled at her, firing sporadically.

Tegan snarled back, swinging the gun again. It clanged off the dome uselessly, and she adjusted for a third swing. This one hit it at the joint of the eyestalk, snapping it.

“MY VISION IS IMPAIRED!”

She got one hand on it, shoving out. It rolled freely, shrieking, and smacked into a wall.  
“EXTERMINATE! EMERGENCY! MY VISION IS IMPAIRED!”

Someone brushed past her, knocking her into the opposite wall. She closed her eyes instinctively, waiting for the roaring pain of her concussion. There was the crackle of breaking glass, and then the Dalek fell silent. “Deplorable conditions indeed,” the captive snapped at the Dalek, turning to face Tegan.

They both froze, both expecting but not daring to hope. “Well,” Nyssa said after a moment, throat working soundlessly in the gap between her words. “That answers that.”

Tegan's heart stopped. “I thought—”

Nyssa swallowed, looking down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“What did you—the Dalek—” Tegan fought out, not sure what to do, what to say. There wasn't a procedure to this, none of society's unwritten rules said what to do when someone came back from the dead.

Shaking her head, Nyssa stepped forward. “They gave me a laboratory. _Me,_ Tegan.” She laughed, the sound bitter and rough. “Told me to engineer a virus that would attack anything non-Dalek. Their supervision could have been better. I made one that only attacks Daleks as well.”

Tegan broke, rushing towards her. Grabbing Nyssa, she pulled the shorter woman into a tight hug. “I thought you were _dead_.” She rested her head on Nyssa's. “Two weeks.”

Nyssa shivered against her, head tucked into her chest. “Mouth on legs, Tegan.” At the touch, her mind swelled, a near overwhelming force of glee and renewal and love that enveloped Tegan’s mind and surrounded it, leaving both of them vibrating from the backwash.

Almost smiling, Tegan clenched tighter, not wanting to let her go. “Always.”

“I missed you too,” Nyssa said into her shirt, her fingers dug into Tegan's back. Her mental touch backed this up, the feel of a wound healing over, the memory of absence and pain being overridden by the joy of recovery.

They stood there for a long moment, Tegan finally stepping back first to examine Nyssa. The other woman had lost weight, but Tegan knew she had too, and looked pale and exhausted. Otherwise, though, she was unharmed, with no bruises or signs of injury. “You look beautiful,” Tegan whispered, still staring.

Nyssa laughed again, the same noise as before, self-disgust ringing in her mind. “I do not. Not after two weeks with Daleks.”

“Liar,” Tegan murmured, stepping forward again, wrapping one arm around Nyssa's back and tilting her chin up with the other. “You _are_ beautiful, Nyssa. Always.”

Nyssa smiled, the expression broken and twisted, her mental touch the same, full of edges and sudden gaps. “Tegan—”

Tegan chose to ignore that, bending down and kissing her. Nyssa tasted of ash and oil and rust, but her lips opened quickly, and they stood there, neither moving aside from flickering tongues, using those to express mutual disbelief: we're here, we're alive, we're free.

Eventually Nyssa returned her hands to Tegan's back, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, her tongue darting into Tegan's mouth and claiming it again. Tegan let her, moving her hand down Nyssa's neck and shoulder. Nyssa’s mind exploded again, with bliss and pleasure and a touch of satisfaction that Tegan encouraged gleefully. When Nyssa pulled back, she looked dazed, and slightly smug. “Mine.”

Tegan blinked, smiling. “Yours.”

Someone cleared their throat. Tegan left her arms precisely where they were, looking up to glare at Wilfred. “ _What_?”

“Daleks,” Turlough said bluntly. “On their way, presumably, since their comrade hardly died quietly.”

Tegan sighed, resting her head on Nyssa’s. “Do you have spares of that virus?”

Nyssa pulled back, looking as determined as Tegan had ever seen her. “Better—I have a weakened form.” Letting go of Tegan entirely, she turned away and walked over to a lab bench.

For the first time, Tegan looked around the room. It was filled with equipment, two lab benches, a number of metallic grey rectangles, one boldly labelled _SAFETY HOOD,_ one wall covered with shelving, the shelving covered with test tubes, pieces of paper scattered everywhere—the closest one read, in Nyssa’s familiar neat handwriting, _base off HIV?_ \--a small cot tucked in one corner and piled with more equipment, not all of which Tegan recognized.

“How is that _better_?” Turlough demanded.

Tegan smirked. “The weaker form will let them spread it to others _before_ it kills them.” She held a note of confidence in her voice through strength of will, but her eyes flickered over to Nyssa, who nodded absently.

“Tegan, I _have_ a weaker form but it will be more dangerous.” Nyssa flicked through a sheaf of paper, not looking at her. “It is not as successful as the one I used—simulations indicate an eighty per cent contamination rate as opposed to a ninety five per cent rate. And it will take longer to take effect. Fortunately for you, the weaker version, ironically, has a longer lifespan, allowing you to disseminate it through the air. ”

She nodded, watching Nyssa closely. “How much longer?”

Nyssa shrugged. “I did not have the resources to test it,” she snapped. “How should I—” She cut herself off, raising the papers slightly.

“Nyssa,” Tegan said quietly. “Are you okay?”

Behind them, before Nyssa could answer, Clara moaned and collapsed to the floor.

Tegan spun, wide-eyed. “What's wrong?”

Clara was deathly pale and shivering, curled into a foetal position. “Hurts,” she gasped out. “It hurts.”

Wilfred moved to kneel beside her, but Nyssa snapped, “Don’t touch her!”

Everyone looked at her except Clara, now whining quietly.

“Back away, Wilfred,” Nyssa said, stress lines visible on her forehead. “Turlough—you too.”

Tegan nodded at them, stepping back herself. “Nyssa-?”

Nyssa sighed, biting her lip. “She's been infected.”

“With what?” Tegan snapped, turning on her. “Does the Dalek virus—”

Shaking her head, Nyssa very deliberately set the papers back on the table. “No. No, obviously not. The two species are too different.”

Eyes flickering between Nyssa and Clara, Wilfred shook his head. “Then what is it?”

“A virus,” Nyssa said, crossing the room. “Tegan, this vial—”

Wilfred stepped forward, nearly blocking her path. “We need a little more than that.”

Nyssa turned to face him, chin up, eyes blazing. “It is a virus that will _kill_ you if you do not let me work and I have—” She cooled, eyes flicking towards Tegan. “It is the inverse of the one I used on the Dalek,” she said calmly, striding past Wilfred and towards the shelving.

“How do you know?” Turlough asked. Tegan frowned, watching Nyssa. “That it’s the inverse? How can you know that, you haven’t even examined her!”

She froze, hands on the shelving. Remaining very still, she said, “The Daleks keep me alive because I am a biochemist and have some skill with diseases.”

Tegan’s stomach sank. “Nyssa—what are you saying?”

“Build them a virus,” Nyssa said flatly, “or they would kill you, and find another scientist.”

Feeling ready to vomit, Tegan stepped forward. “No. No, you can't have.”

Nyssa looked down. “I am sorry, Tegan. Your life—all of your lives—against a virus I never intended to let them use? It made sense, at the time.”

“But they used it,” Tegan said, pointing at Clara. “On the group we were with.”

Skin paling, Nyssa reached for a vial. "I had thought to destroy it before they had the chance—like Penelope, from your Earth stories. Every piece of progress I made, undone overnight."

"But?" Wilfred said quietly.

“Daleks are not that stupid. They gave me two days to start making progress, or you would be killed and Tegan, I cannot—” She broke off, shivering. “They left me unsupervised, and I made two versions, one that they wanted and one that targets Daleks only.” The words spilled out, faster than Nyssa normally spoke.

In the background, Clara whined. They all turned toward her, Nyssa looking strained, skin tight around her eyes and mouth. “I designed this.”

Tegan swallowed. “Are there any weaknesses? Anything we can do? A cure?” It didn’t seem real, none of it had, not since their arrival in that room, but this in particular: standing in front of Nyssa, who somehow was _alive_ , listening to her speak far too calmly about designing a virus—designinga _virus_ , and some part of Tegan’s heart glowed with pride—that was killing another of their friends, and all the while there was an army of Daleks just waiting for the opportunity to kill them.

Nyssa scoffed, gaze lowering to the floor. “You cannot cure a virus.”

“A vaccine, then,” Tegan snapped. “Can you make a vaccine?”

Nyssa looked up at her, one hand tight on the shelf, the other holding a vial. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, I can.” She took a moment to compose herself; when she looked up again, she still resembled some definition of hell, but determination shone in her eyes. “Tegan, I’ll need your help.”

Tegan nodded. “What about the Dalek virus?”

“This vial,” Nyssa said, raising it. “As long as it gets into their air intake, they stand a good chance of being either infected or carriers.”

Turlough took the vial, staring at the cloudy liquid. “That’s _it_?”

Nyssa tilted her head, looking at him. “There are enough viable units in here to wipe out the entire Dalek army. Once they enter a host, they will begin reproducing. How much did you think you’d _need_?”

“Turlough,” Tegan said warningly. “Get over to the door.”

He scowled at her, but obeyed, evading piles of equipment and stepping over Clara. Swinging the door mostly closed, he slouched against the wall, staring outwards.

“Tegan.” Nyssa stepped closer to her, biting her lip. “Making a vaccine is going to be tricky enough, but I don’t think Clara can be—”

Glancing away, Tegan sighed. “I—I know. What do you need?”

Nyssa swallowed. “Blood,” she said quietly.

Tegan’s jaw very nearly dropped. “ _Blood_? What for?” She mimed vampire fangs.

Lips twisting into an almost-smile, Nyssa shook her head. “Identification. The virus in Clara is designed to hijack cellular transport proteins and use them to enter cells. Once inside, it replicates and attacks anything that doesn’t have the Dalek genetic identifier. And it intentionally mutates rapidly to get it past the host’s—normal defences that would kill it, making it very difficult to isolate and target once it is inside a body. So, if I can take some of your blood and some of Clara’s—she is human, isn’t she?”

Tegan nodded, stunned.

“Then I can compare yours to hers, pinpoint the virus in her blood and see exactly how and what has changed. Then it’s a fairly simple process of reprogramming your immune cells to recognize the mutations as well as the original virus and attack it even after it starts to mutate. This won’t work on Clara, keep in mind—too much of the virus has already entered and destroyed her cells. But it will make a very effective vaccine.”

Sighing, Tegan shook her head. “If you say so. Are you certain it will work?”

Nyssa looked up at her, grim and sure. “I designed this virus. I know how to take it down.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously:_

_“This won’t work on Clara, keep in mind—too much of the virus has already entered and destroyed her cells. But it will make a very effective vaccine.”_

_Sighing, Tegan shook her head. “If you say so. Are you certain it will work?”_

_Nyssa looked up at her, grim and sure. “I designed this virus. I know how to take it down.”_

* * *

 

“Yeah…” Tegan stepped towards her, gently touching one of her hands. “You keep saying that. If you designed this—why did you make it mutate so rapidly? Why not let it get caught?”

She jerked her hand free, crossing her arms and looking down. “The Daleks could not design such a thing themselves—but they could test it. They brought humans to me, and gave them my current version. Tegan—I couldn’t—”

Tegan clenched her teeth, turning away. “Wilfred—destroy the papers. All of them. I want _nothing_ salvageable from this room.”

“There’s sulphuric acid in the corner. They let me have it to get rid of samples,” Nyssa said quietly, staring at her feet. “Keep your mouth covered when dropping things in, and don’t let it touch you.”

Wilfred gave both of them a long steady glance. “Nyssa, lass, is there anything you need saved?”

Nyssa looked coldly around the room. “Just these papers.” She pointed at one of the lab benches. “And leave the vials for last. You have to be careful when disposing of them.”

He set to work, first grabbing on a pair of thick plastic gloves from a bench. Nyssa sighed. “Now, Tegan, I need blood.”

Tegan nodded, raising a finger. “Don’t have a knife, sorry.”

Nyssa turned to the nearest bench, coming up with a thin needle and a small square of glass. “The needle’s clean,” she said, unprompted, “I spent a full day decontaminating.”

Fingernails digging into her palm, Tegan turned away as Nyssa poked her fingertip and squeezed blood out. It wasn’t that she was _squeamish_ , not really—she just didn’t like her own blood.

“Done.” Nyssa pulled away, putting the square in one side of a large grey machine. “Clara? Clara, I need you to do something.”

On the floor, Clara rolled over, still mostly in a foetal position. She was trembling, and her fingernails were tearing gashes in her forearms.

Tegan sighed. “Apparently not.”

Nyssa nodded, frowning. “You will have to get it, then. Be very careful—do not get any on you, and try not to let her touch you at all. The Daleks failed to provide biohazard wear.”

She handed Tegan a new needle, a pair of light gloves, and a small glass square. “Her finger ought to be the best—you want to keep away from her face. Prick the tip, wait a second, and place the slide beneath the blood, scooping up. Wear the gloves, but you still should not touch her any longer than necessary.”

Tegan had to swallow to keep her stomach down. “Right. Sounds fun.” Slipping the gloves on, she looked directly at Nyssa. “And you can’t do this?” she asked, the words coming out harsher than intended. “Not—Nyssa, not that I blame you but—surely it would make more sense—”

Nyssa turned away, leaning on the lab bench. “You may already be infected,” she said tightly. “I am not.”

There was a part—a _small_ part, but a part—of Tegan’s mind that hated her for this, for inventing such a disease, for putting them in this position, for killing Clara, for possibly infecting her, for having the _guts_ to stand there and give orders. The rest of her sang with pride, because Nyssa _had_ invented a disease, two in fact, and she was working on a cure, and she _had_ the guts to stand there and give orders despite everything else she must be feeling, and she had been put in an impossible position, and was _still standing_ , still fighting, and Tegan loved her so much it hurt.

Without responding other than a smile, Tegan bent down beside Clara. The woman was curled up, nails dug into her arms, making high pitched whining noises. Tegan wanted to help her up, to hug her, to tell her it was going to be alright but she couldn’t, she couldn’t even touch her. “Clara—Clara can you hear me?”

Clara flinched, tilting her head in Tegan’s direction, eyes clamped shut. “T-tegan. I- I thought—” She broke off, shivering again. “Can’t hear. Fa- Fades in and out.”

Tegan swallowed, kneeling, stone floor cold through her skirt—no wonder Clara was shaking. “Okay. Just—just put an arm out. I need to take some blood.”

Teeth clenched so tight Tegan could see the muscles in her jaw bulge, Clara reached out one arm, shaking badly. “Help—will it—help?”

“Yes,” Nyssa said firmly. “Yes, of course.”

Tegan nearly glared at her, for lying, but Clara relaxed slightly, hand still outstretched. “Do it.”

Sorting out her limbs, Tegan jabbed the needle into Clara’s finger. There was a moment of resistance, another moment when she had to adjust to keep Clara’s hand from sliding away, and then the needle sank in. She stared at it, briefly dizzy, and then yanked it out again. Blood swelled around the small hole. She fumbled with the slide, eventually sliding it up the edge of Clara’s finger, somehow getting the blood just on the slide and not on her finger. “Got it, Nyssa.”

Clara whimpered and jerked her arm back in.

Trying to keep the slide balanced, Tegan stood and passed it off to Nyssa. “Now what?”

“Now,” Nyssa said, placing the slide in the other side of the machine, “I violate several codes of scientific conduct, and attempt to make a vaccine.” She bent over the machine, beginning to flip switches, and Tegan briefly turned her attention elsewhere.

Turlough was still leaning against the wall, absently flipping the vial of Dalek virus end over end in his hands. He saw her glance and groaned. “Would be nice of them to come when called. It’s getting a bit boring, just standing here.”

Tegan snorted, stripping the gloves off and tossing them in an otherwise empty wastebin. “Don’t think so. If they came, we’d be fighting, and you wouldn’t be nearly as bored.”

“Ninety per cent of any war is boredom,” Wilfred said, calmly dropping a sheaf of papers in a tall glass bucket. They fizzled, rapidly turning black and dissolving.

Turlough glanced at him. “And the other ten per cent?”

Wilfred smiled. “Sheer terror.” Most of the papers were either in the bucket or next to it, and Wilf was beginning to smash equipment against the walls, shattering it and filling the room with the sounds of glass.

On the floor, Clara _howled_ , clawing at her ears. Tegan felt about ready to vomit, sympathy tearing at her stomach, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t tell her anything that could help, just had to watch her _die_ and the worst thing was that the horror and distress she felt now was _nothing_ to what she had felt when she thought Nyssa dead. To stare at herself and know that she valued Nyssa’s life over any other—it shook her, and Tegan leaned against the lab bench, nauseous.

“Tegan,” Nyssa said, evidently watching her. “Hold this.”

Blinking, Tegan took the offered graduated cylinder. “What is it?”

Nyssa smiled angelically. “Fifty mLs of sterile DNAse-free water. Just hold it.”

Tegan held it, watching Nyssa. “What are you doing?”

“Bored much?” Nyssa asked quietly, pouring a cloudy white liquid into a different container of cloudy white liquid.

She almost shrugged, then remembered the cylinder and didn’t. “There isn’t much for me to do.”

Nyssa looked up at her, amusement written in the lines around her eyes. “Hold this, then.” She handed over a different test tube, and reached for the cylinder. “And I’ll take that.”

“Nyssa,” Tegan growled, never long on patience. “What’s _this_ , then?”

“Cup it between your hands,” Nyssa said absently, fiddling with another machine. “It has to be kept above room temperature.”

Tegan sighed, but did as ordered. “What is it?”

Opening the machine, Nyssa did something that Tegan couldn’t see, but seemed to involve a lot of small fiddly tubes and exchanging fluid in them. “Culture.”

“ _What_ ,” Tegan said flatly.

Nyssa looked up, frowning, and then giggled at the look on her face. “Not _that_ sort. It’s a – well, a food, of a sort, for the new T cells.”

Tegan raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”

Sobering rapidly, Nyssa returned to the second machine. “Now—if this works—the trouble is that we don’t have the time or resources for proper _testing_. _Normally_ , these molecules would be kept alone for generations, to ensure that they are stable, and then tested on smaller organisms. Only if they were successful there, with no side effects, would anyone _consider_ testing them on sentient beings.”

“Nyssa,” Tegan snapped.

Nyssa sighed. “But, there are five of us, only four of whom this can be used on, and no _time_. It just—Tegan, it worries me. To use this without any testing at all, with no idea of the side effects—”

Tegan cut her off. “Will it work?”

Nyssa nodded, slowly.

“Are any of the side effects going to be worse than the actual disease?”

She shook her head, just as slowly.

“Then this seems like the better option,” Tegan said, hands tightening around the culture.

Nyssa smiled, returning to her work. “It must be, there isn’t another option.” After a minute, she closed the machine, flipping a switch.

Tegan watched her closely. “What’s that?”

“It’s a – the closest you have is a centrifuge, but this is a little more advanced. It can separate out every piece of your blood, and identify it. By comparing your blood with Clara’s, I can determine what the virus looks like and design T cells that target the stable portions of its RNA.”

Tegan frowned. “Didn’t you keep notes?”

Nyssa laughed bitterly. “No. I did all of it from memory. I couldn’t risk becoming disposable.”

“So what’s Wilfred burning?”

She shrugged. “A lot of notes. The virus genome itself I memorized, but its structure, its method of entry—those I had to write down. And there’s a complete set of information on the Dalek virus as well. Also—other thoughts.”

The machine _pinged_. Nyssa flipped open the lid, staring at the results. “Right.”

“Is that good?” Tegan asked, craning her neck.

Nyssa bit her lip. “Well, it’s not _bad_. The machine sorted out the virus, I’m just worried that it caught other things in there.” She grabbed a cable and connected it to a third device. “The culture, please.”

Tegan handed it over. “Now what?’

“ _Now_ ,” Nyssa said, inserting the culture into the third machine, “I get to reprogram blank T cells.” She frowned, partially at the machine and partially, it seemed, at Tegan. “A bit beyond your time, I’m afraid. Even if you had a scientific background, there isn’t very much I could explain.” She turned to a keyboard and began typing rapidly.

Curiosity less satisfied than stifled, Tegan settled in to wait.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long before Nyssa sighed, pulling a vial out of a box and putting it inside the machine. “That should do it.” Within seconds, she pulled the vial back out, now filled with an opaque white liquid. “Tegan, do you see a syringe?”

Finding one quickly, Tegan handed it over. “I thought unclean syringes—”

“Yes, a very bad idea,” Nyssa said, sounding distracted, “don’t do it under normal circumstances, but this one _is_ clean. And even if it wasn’t, it would hardly be the most dangerous thing I’m asking you to do.”

Tegan smiled slightly, watching Nyssa suck fluid into the syringe. “No, that would be vaccinating myself with the improperly tested medicine.”

“Precisely.” Nyssa looked up at her. “Come over here, it’s best if I do it. And what I wouldn’t give for proper _peer review_.”

Tegan rounded the table. Wilfred was mostly done smashing equipment, and Turlough continued to look bored, while Clara had at some point screamed herself hoarse. It was a little worrying how easy it had been to tune her out. “If you had peer review, you would be whining about writing papers,” Tegan said dryly, rolling one sleeve up.

Nyssa grinned, and stabbed her with the needle. “More than likely, yes.” Pulling the needle out, she flicked it off into a waste bin. Moving quickly, she grabbed a new one from a container next to her, fastened it to the syringe, and reinserted it into the vial. “How does that feel?”

“Is it supposed to?” Tegan asked, brushing away the drop of blood that oozed from the pinprick.

Nyssa sighed tightly. “Well I would _know_ , if I had done any previous testing – Wilfred! Your turn.”

Wilfred came over, frowning. “Can’t you get AIDS from those?”

“I cleaned it,” Nyssa said, holding out the needle. “Just roll your sleeve up.”

Still grumbling, Wilfred did as ordered, and held very still as Nyssa inserted and removed the needle. “My turn, I suppose,” Nyssa said, turning back to the vial. With brisk motions, she rolled up one sleeve and then smoothly injected herself, letting her sleeve fall back down as she withdrew the needle. “Turlough,” she said, not looking up. “Come here.”

At that point, they all heard the sound of rattling coming down the corridor. Turlough smirked. “A bit busy!”

Nyssa sighed. “Infect the Daleks, _then_ get vaccinated.”

Tegan rolled her eyes. “Just throw the thing into the corridor. Nyssa, you said it’s respiratory, right?”

“Yes,” Nyssa said, looking around the room. “Wilfred, did you get the notes above the cabinet – oh, it’s too late now, just start dumping vials.”

Tegan frowned. “Notes above the cabinet?”

“EXTERMINATE THE CAPTIVE!”

Nyssa sighed. “ _Vials_ , Wilfred.”

Jumping, he crossed to the shelving and started pouring fluid down the sink.

“It’s nothing big,” Nyssa told Tegan, joining Wilfred. “Just my preparatory thoughts on a virus.”

Tegan snorted. “Nothing big, I’m sure. Turlough, just _throw_ it!”

Rolling his eyes, Turlough did as ordered. She could faintly hear the glass breaking against a Dalek shell before Turlough slammed the door shut. “Time to go before they break in and kill us all.”

Tegan looked at Nyssa, who bit her lip. “Tegan, did you-?” Her eyes flicked to Clara. “There isn’t much we can do for her.”

“There’s this,” Turlough said, aiming his gun. “If the Daleks get her—”

Nyssa looked back at Tegan. “Your choice.”

Tegan closed her eyes, chin down. “Do it, but do it right.” She gagged, leaning heavily on the lab bench.

There was a loud crack, and then the faint continual rasping ceased. Tegan _did_ vomit, heaving until nothing more would come up, sickened at the choices she had been forced into making.

Behind her, Turlough grumbled, probably getting his vaccine. Outside the door, she could faintly hear Daleks trying to break through and the confused noise of the first infected. And inside, she was standing, vomiting all over a lab bench while a _person_ laid dead at her feet, someone whose death _she_ had caused.

The world fuzzed out.

* * *

 

Tegan hit the ground and barely managed to keep from vomiting again, some part of her mind pointing out that she was on carpet and that she wasn’t supposed to be sick on the carpet, it took too long to clean up.

“Not everything was destroyed!” Nyssa had a hand on her shoulder but was glaring at someone else.

The someone else sighed. “If I waited much longer, there was a chance I would not have been able to get you out at all.”

Tegan blinked at them until the world came back into focus. “Who’re you?”

The someone else turned out to be a man, humanoid, tall, with greying-black hair kept neatly in place by what she thought must have been an _obscene_ amount of hair gel. “Irving Braxiatel, founder of the Braxiatel Collection.”

“I heard you,” Tegan said before she could think about it, the words slipping out. “You wanted to rescue us.”

For a second, Irving Braxiatel didn’t move. Then he said, slowly, “I did. What I am curious about, however, is how _you_ know that.”

Tegan bit her lip, grabbing Nyssa’s hand and using that to pull herself upright. “Your lot—Time Lords, I guess, put some information in my head. And I heard you, and someone else. A woman, because you called her ‘my lady’.”

He froze again, face so incredibly lacking in emotion it practically telegraphed his shock. “You were not intended to hear that.”

“I figured that out,” Tegan snapped, “when you started talking about Nyssa like she’s something to be _owned_.”

Even out of the corner of her eye, she could see Wilfred bristle—and Turlough, too, interestingly enough. “You did _what_?” Wilf snarled.

Anger flashed across Braxiatel’s face, the first emotion she had seen from him. “I am playing a deeper game than you are aware. Do not be so quick to jump to conclusions.”

“Do me the courtesy of attempting to be polite, my lord,” Nyssa said, tension in her voice and edging in her mind where it touched Tegan's. “Non-telepathic races may be the norm, but utter voids when you are staring at a person are not.”

Everyone straightened at that, Braxiatel frowning. “You are tele—” He cut himself off, looking down. “My apologies.” He pulled a small grey box out of one suit pocket, flipping a switch on its side. “I—ah—ran into a situation where my safety would be improved if I was no longer telepathic. The solution, unfortunately, left me non-existent to any sort of psychic senses, such as those Lady Nyssa possesses.”

Nyssa stiffened at the title; Tegan grabbed her hand.

From Braxiatel’s hand, the grey box made a chirping noise. “Starting up. Recovering stored memory—fifteen per cent. Seventy five per cent. Forty per cent. Recovering stored memory—complete.”

Braxiatel glared at it. “This is an advanced telepathic replacement. It reports my emotions, and the emotions of those around me.”

“Must cut down on spying,” Turlough said quietly.

“Emotions outgoing,” the box reported, “exhaustion, worry, stress, slight enthusiasm. Emotions incoming:…” It whirred. “Detecting multiple organisms.”

Braxiatel slipped the box back into his pocket. “Yes, well. How certain are you, Nyssa, that your virus will destabilize the Dalek forces?”

Tegan frowned. “You knew what we were doing?” It was obvious, he had to have been to know when to get them out—but how?

“I still have agents with telepathy. One of them kept her eyes on you, so to speak, and alerted me.” Braxiatel had his hands tucked in the pockets of his suit jacket.

Nyssa sighed quietly. “As certain as I can be. The virus was successful on one Dalek; assuming they maintain previous habits, the others will be near genetic relatives. Given that the virus worked on one, it is not unreasonable to assume that it will work on the remainder.”

For the first time, Braxiatel smiled, the expression brief, vicious, and entirely foreign to his face. “How delightful,” he said mildly—“satisfaction, glee” came from his pockets—stepping back and turning slightly outwards. “I would like to offer my apologies,” he said to the room at large, “for ignoring you to this point, and my condolences for your loss. You are the first mission to be sent off, and also the first to safely return, and proper protocol has not yet been established. As Master of the Collection, I shall extend my hospitality to you all. You will have every care I can provide; when the war is completed, I shall personally ensure that you are safely returned to your timelines.”

“Mission?” Wilfred asked. “How many of us are there? Is everyone gonna be so badly prepared? ‘Cause I’m telling you, sir, if it weren’t for Tegan—”

Tegan scuffed one foot against the floor, ears feeling hot, even as Braxiatel raised one hand. “I was unaware until you were already in transit what my President had planned for you. I can promise you that the next one will be _considerably_ better prepared.”

Wilfred nodded, although Turlough still looked doubtful. Nyssa's mind rang with exhaustion and a lack of interest in anything but a bed. Tegan smiled briefly at her, and then looked up at Braxiatel. “Thank you.”

“Emotions incoming: Exhaustion, grief, contentment.”

Braxiatel raised one eyebrow very slightly. “How many bedrooms will you need? Four?”

“Emotions outgoing: interest.”

“Three,” Tegan said firmly. “One with a queen bed. If you can.”

His lips twitched—“Emotions outgoing: amusement, smug self-satisfaction.” The very faint traces of humour vanished from his face as he looked down at his pocket, eventually frowning slightly. “That can be provided,” he said, voice bland. “And for you, gentlemen?”

Turlough remained silent, glaring at Braxiatel. Wilfred cleared his throat. “Ah – well, the single's just fine, I just want to be sure—you _are_ aware that your actions caused a young girl’s death?”

Braxiatel’s face went flat again, lips pressed tight. Tegan could hear the switch of the box being turned off. “I am very aware, Mr Mott. Please believe me when I say that if there was anything I could have done—”

“Extracted us earlier,” Wilfred snapped. “Before she got that stuff on her hand.”

Nyssa flinched, and Tegan tightened her fingers on the other’s wrist.

For a second, the Time Lord closed his eyes. When he opened them again, emotion was in every line of his face, something old and deep and mournful. It reminded Tegan, in an odd way, of the Doctor. “Extracting you earlier would have destroyed more lives than Clara Oswald’s. I am still playing a deeper game, Mr Mott, and I always will be. There is more at stake here than one human.”

“I thought that was the point of this.” Tegan gave Braxiatel an ostensibly innocent look. “To save people.”

Somehow, without moving, he gave off the impression of anger. “Which is what I am _trying_ to do.”

“Clara is still dead,” Tegan said, the words only sinking home after they left her mouth.

He blinked once, otherwise remaining perfectly still. “A fact which I am eminently aware of. If you would like to go to your rooms now, I would be _delighted_ to take you.”

It didn’t seem optional. Holding Nyssa’s hand, Tegan nodded. “That sounds—” She searched for a word.

_“Nice,”_ Nyssa provided telepathically.

“Nice,” Tegan finished with a completely fake smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID WARN YOU. "Major Character Death" it says up at the top. I /warned you/.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mylordshesacactus, dromeianindistress, and gallifreyshawkeye for betaing. And pretty much telling me that the first draft was good but wouldn't it be better if it read less like a video game intro.
> 
> (They also beta'd Like a Phoenix from the Ashes but I forgot to credit them.)
> 
> Story title is from Robert Oppenheimer: "There must be no barriers to freedom of inquiry ... There is no place for dogma in science. The scientist is free, and must be free to ask any question, to doubt any assertion, to seek for any evidence, to correct any errors."


End file.
